It’s hard for me to love other people. It’s even harder for me to love myself.
I was driving home from work Monday evening and I had just angrily hung up the phone. A woman had called me from a company that did some work at my house a few years ago. I didn’t like the way the company was handling its business with me, but it was nothing personal with the woman.
The thing that annoyed me wasn’t her fault. She was just reading a script. She was doing her job. But I was in a bad mood — and I took out my frustrations on her.
I wasn’t nasty or rude, but I certainly wasn’t kind or loving.
As I drove the rest of the way down I-459 toward home, I stewed in my irritation, but my annoyance quickly turned toward myself. I wasn’t upset with that woman or her company.
I lectured myself about being a hypocrite. I berated myself about my unwillingness to live up to my values when it wasn’t convenient — when I wasn’t in the right mood.

Should I become prophet of doom or fade quietly into the darkness?
What did you want in childhood? Did you abandon those dreams?
Each unexpected death forces me to confront limits of my own life
Petty politics as usual just might be Chris Christie’s bridge to obscurity
We rarely have wisdom we need ’til it’s too late to avoid mistakes
Hiding anger was a survival skill, so you might not know I’m angry
I’m writing a book — and I’ll be talking about it as it progresses